


Run 'Til You Can't Walk

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Pack - Freeform, BAMF Allison, BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Stiles, F/M, Magical Lydia Martin, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Running Away, Team Human, shit that summary makes it sound so dramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1279849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison, Lydia, and Stiles have had enough of Beacon Hills and all the supernatural parts and people it has. So, they leave.<br/>But it's not long before the supernatural drags them back in, and they're in more danger than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run 'Til You Can't Walk

They leave in the middle of the night, knowing if any of the pack were awake they would be stopped. Stiles has left a letter for his dad, Lydia for her mother, for when they each wake up in the morning to find their children gone. Allison’s dad has known about their plans for the beginning, useful in their preparations and allied to Allison more so than to any of the pack, so he instead gets a hug and an ‘I love you’ from his daughter’s lips.

They leave because they’re risks.

Whether or not they can fight—which they can, do magic—which Lydia and Stiles can, or even kill—not yet—they’re still human, and therefore they’re liabilities to the werewolves and parents in their lives. Allison’s been kidnapped twice, tortured once; Lydia: five kidnappings, no tortures; Stiles: six kidnappings, six tortures.

They all have scars now, inside and out, hidden away by clothes and clever lies.

They decided, a month before graduation, after Stile’s sixth torture/kidnapping combo, that they had to leave. Had to get out of the supernatural world. Sat around the back table in the restaurant connected to the bowling alley, Stiles holds a bag of ice to his newly black eye with his good hand—the other has a sprained wrist—and says,

“We can’t keep doing this to them. They can’t afford to have to take care of us all the time.”

“We could’ve dealt with it,” Allison huffs, but then sighs, slumping against the table. “But you’re right. We’re dangerous to them. Human members of a pack, trained and prepared or not, aren't exactly common. All we’re doing at this point is causing worry and pain for everyone.”

“Well then.” Lydia speaks in her usual crisp tone, although Allison and Stiles can still tell just how unhappy she is with this. They can also tell she agrees. “We’d better start planning.”

They’d waited long enough to a) graduate high school b) get the supplies, both supernatural and natural, they needed c) for all of them to turn eighteen, and therefore be mostly-legal adults and d) to properly plan everything, down to the last detail.

And now, they’re driving to the airport in one of Chris Argent’s black SUVs, because Stiles can’t bear to leave his beloved jeep abandoned in the airport parking lot.

They board a red-eye to New York at 4:13a.m., and Stiles leans his head against the window until the plane leaves the ground.

“They’re going to flip when they find out,” Allison mutters from next to him. “They’ll try to find us.”

“It’s why we’re on a plane,” he reminds her. “So they won’t have a scent trail.”

She sighs, and leans her head on his shoulder.

In New York, Lydia sends Stiles and Allison to Starbucks, and joins them an hour later with keys to “their new apartment.” Stiles almost spit-takes his coffee onto her.

“How the hell did you manage that?” Allison asks, reaching over to lightly thump Stiles on the back while he coughs. Lydia just shrugs, reaching over and snagging Stiles’ muffin.

“A girl can never reveal her secrets.”

The apartment has three bedrooms, but it’s fairly small anyways, with a living room that’s roughly the size of Stiles’ old bed. The kitchen is decent though, and the bathroom seems sterile, so they’re okay. They don’t get to see it for very long though, just enough time to put their stuff down and have five minutes to regroup, and then Lydia’s steering them back out the door and into a taxi.

“Running away is the perfect time to get a new wardrobe,” she says matter-of-factly, holding up the last credit card she hasn't cancelled.

They do Stiles first, because he’s a guy, so his clothing choices aren't going to differ much anyways. The thing that’s probably the most different is the lack of graphic tees, and the brown leather jacket Lydia shoves him into. After Lydia seems satisfied, Stiles leaves the girls with cash Lydia’s given him, and finds a grocery store. Ten years of having only your dad around has few advantages, but Stiles learning to fend for himself when it came to food at an early age is one of them. The girls find him almost two hours later, wandering around the store, bored out of his freaking mind. Allison’s hair is shorter, and a lighter color. He tells her it looks good, and she smiles at him, twisting one of the curls with her finger.

“I’ll get used to it,” she says.

Lydia’s hair hasn't been changed, but she’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, which is probably the plainest outfit he’s ever seen her in. It’s a little disconcerting, actually, but she looks good in it, just like she does in everything else.

They head back to the apartment and order take-out. Lydia takes a pair of scissors to her credit card, cuts into little squares, and then flushes them all down the toilet.

“Won’t they still be able to track it?” Stiles asks from the kitchen counter, where he’s sitting due to the lack of furniture—Lydia had bought some too when Stiles had been gone, but it isn't being delivered until tomorrow.

“Yes, but we’re adults now. Legally, they can’t do anything about it. And if they do anyways, say, my mom or your dad, I told every person we talked to today we were heading to Europe in two days, and I bought the furniture with cash, so no worries.”

She pats his knee and reaches around him to grab an eggroll.

Allison and Stiles decide, the next day, that Lydia can’t be responsible for everything they need, so while the furniture is being delivered and set up, they leave the apartment under Lydia’s watchful eye and go looking for work. They have a knife on each on them, but other than that they’re unarmed.

They find work in a little diner four blocks from their new home, where the owner is a twenty year old woman who just inherited the place.

“Everyone left when my aunt died,” she tells them, obviously stressed. “Said they’d come back if I could actually keep the place running for more than two weeks.”

So Allison becomes the head waitress, and Stiles the cook, because, as previously mentioned, he learned to cook a long time ago.

And for the next four months, they remember what it’s like to live in a world that isn't run over by the supernatural.

They make new friends at the diner, at the salon Lydia likes, in the hallways of their building, and their favourite gym. They work weird hours, get the diner and its owner back on their feet. They pay rent and invite people over, go to tenant meetings. They spar on the mats at the gym, impress everyone present without fail, no matter how many times they do it. Lydia constantly tries to get Stiles to get his nails done, to which he repeatedly refuses.

But peace never lasts forever, and they learn that lesson the hard way.

The diner has since gotten more staff, and more customers than it ever had before. Sarah—the owner—can’t thank them enough for it; Stiles and Allison still get all the shifts they want though, and right now it’s the late night ones, because they've had trouble sleeping since long before they left. Lydia comes in every night and sits at the counter during these shifts, and eats the muffins Stiles likes to make, and drinks iced tea or lattes. Usually, she does work for the online course she's been taking, because they're still being cautious, and she doesn't want to yet enroll in any official colleges.

It’s a Tuesday night, almost midnight. They only have an hour before they close. Sarah’s in the one of the booths, doing taxes, and a mother and her eight year old son are tucked into the opposite booth, obviously exhausted. They've been on the road all night, the woman told Allison when she asked.

Two werewolves come in, already wolfed out and looking for a fight.

“Who’s ready to die?” one growls out, and Stiles steps out from behind the counter with his wolfsbane-dipped knife already in his hand from where it’s been tucked up his sleeve, looking completely relaxed.

“Really?” he says. “That’s like, the most cliché thing I’ve ever heard.” Then he rushes forward and stabs the wolf in the chest, pulling it out in the next second and pushing it through the wolf’s eye socket for good measure. The other one moves forward to attack Stiles, and gets an arrow in his forehead and one of Lydia’s favourite throwing knives—cleverly disguised as the heels of her boots—in his shoulder for his trouble. Stiles glances over his shoulder to see Lydia holding the other one at the ready, her feet now flat on the ground, and Allison with her smallest crossbow locked and loaded at the ready. They haven’t dropped their guard for almost five months, and now Stiles is thankful for it.

The two werewolves are dead, and the humans are forced to play cleanup. Stiles and Allison deal with the bodies while Lydia talks Sarah and the two costumers down from their hysterics. When Allison and Stiles come back in, they’re calmed down, but still have looks of fear as they look at the three teens.

“We quit,” Stiles says, moving towards the door. “Sorry for the trouble.” He ducks outside behind the girls before anyone can reply.

They’re out of New York within in the hour, on a flight headed south.

“They were both Alphas,” Lydia says, and the others gazes both snap to her. Stiles thinks back, and,

“Oh my god, you’re right. They both had red eyes. Oh my god.”

“You said that already,” Lydia says, reaching over to place a comforting hand on his knee. “Allison?” she adds, because her best friend hasn't said anything, and it's freaking her out a little, is she's being honest.

“The Alpha Pack,” Allison says in a whisper, and then shakes her head as if to clear it. “Uh, my dad told me about a pack of alphas. There’s like thirty of them or something, and they all work together. They’re also, like, crazy loyal. It’s weird.”

“So what does that mean for us?” Lydia’s the one to ask after a moment of stunned—scared—silence, voicing Stiles’ own thought process. Allison looks over at them, looking sick.

“It means we’re going to be hunted.”

The flight is just barely two hours, and they spend all of it planning. They agree, first off, that they can’t stay any place for longer than 24 hours. They also decide that using their real identities isn't an option anymore, because if the Alpha Pack is as good as Chris Argent had said they are, they’ll undoubtedly know their names hours after they find their dead pack members. There’s other stuff they plan too, like how they can get better weapons that they can smuggle through security checks. They also promise each other to never leave each other’s sights.

When they touch down somewhere in Kansas, Stiles risks a call to Deaton.

“Hello?”

“Oh thank God you picked up. I was really hoping I still had Scott’s schedule down,” Stiles rushes into the payphone receiver.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Deaton says, “Stiles.” He doesn't even sound surprised, voice carefully neutral.

“Yeah, it’s me. Look, we were wondering if you knew about any druids or emissaries or something in Kansas.” He knows it’s a risk to give up their location, even if it’s just the state, but they need supplies if they’re going to be fighting for their lives. _Again._

Besides, if anyone knows how to hold their own against werewolves, it’s Deaton.

Deaton, thankfully, does know some people, and gives him names and addresses that Stiles jots down in a notebook Lydia hands him.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, handing the notebook back to Lydia, who starts looking through the names critically. Stiles hesitates, then asks,

“How are they doing?”

Deaton doesn’t need to ask who he’s talking about.

“About as well as you’d expect, given the circumstances of  you three leaving with no warning.” There’s a pause. “Am I allowed to tell them you called?”

Stiles glances at Allison, who’s been listening in. She shrugs, biting her lip, so Stiles says,

“Yeah. But not the Kansas part.”

“Okay.” Deaton’s voice has a note of finality to it. “I hope to see you back here someday.”

“Me too,” Stiles says, and hangs up the phone. He stares at it for a minute, and then exhales loudly. Turning to Lydia he asks,

“Do you know which of those is the closest?”

She does, somehow, and they spend their day, exhausted as they are, on buses and in taxis, going to the various houses and shops Deaton’s told them about. Every single person they talk to is willing to help them out once Deaton’s name is mentioned—or Morrell’s, in some cases—and Lydia’s money is brought out, and by the time they’re on a bus out of state, Allison has a new cross bow and two dozen bolts for it, all disguised as pens and pencils. Lydia practically has knives sewn into the seams of her purse, and Stiles has a badass bow staff that collapses into something that resembles a ruler. He’s not as good with it as a baseball bat, but it’ll do. Besides these, they each have lifelong—or at least, an average life’s—supplies of mountain ash, mistletoe and wolfsbane, and Lydia and Stiles both have some books on magic. Allison has medical supplies—salves, bandages, needles and thread, anything they might need. One of the kinder shop owners had given them protective charms as well, with the warning,

“If the Alpha Pack is really coming for you, my best advice for you is run. Run and hide. The Alpha Pack has friends everywhere, and trust me when I say you don’t want to meet them.”

When the bus stops, they crash in the nearest vacant hotel they can find; Allison and Lydia both laugh a little when Stiles flips open the Bible to make sure there are no newspaper clippings in it.

There’s only one bed, king size, but they were in a wolf pack, and wolves are tactile like nobody’s business, so they've all done their fair share of puppy piling. Sharing a bed isn't a problem for any of them.

Stiles has been an early riser since his mom died and he started having trouble sleeping, so he gets up about an hour after dawn, uncurls himself from Allison and, mainly, Lydia, and messes around the hotel room for a while, bored out of his freaking mind but unwilling to break the rule he himself came up with to go find a coffee shop.

Instead, he pulls out the books on magic he’d gotten, and starts reading. By the time Allison’s up, he’s over halfway through the first.

“How long have you been up?” she asks, sliding off the bed to try not to disturb Lydia.

Stiles looks around for a clock. The one beside the bed reads 8:37. “A couple hours,” he answers. Allison raises her eyebrows, but doesn't say anything. Instead, she comes over and starts reading over his shoulder.

Lydia wakes up not long after, and the three check out, and then try to find a Starbucks for caffeine and breakfast.

The window shop for a while downtown after breakfast, getting lunch in a sushi shop Lydia picks out, because she loves sushi. They leave through the back exit, ending up in a shaded alley, and wind up face to face with

“Is that a troll?” Stiles says, getting out his staff.

“With claws,” Allison says, arming her crossbow. Lydia gets out her knives just as the troll comes charging at them.

It’s a hard fight, and by the end Lydia’s jacket and shirt are both ripped and her arm is bleeding through them. Stiles has a cut above his eye that’s gushing blood into it, and it doesn't look like it’s planning on stopping anytime soon. The only reason Allison isn't hurt is due to her weapon of choice being long range.

“Fuck!” Stiles curses, searching blindly for the curb to sit on. Lydia helps him with one arm, looking panicked, and Allison comes over, digging through her bag for the supplies. She gives Lydia the biggest band-aid she has and some neosporin for her arm, and sets to work on Stiles.

She’s glad they’re in a shadowed alleyway that nobody seems to know exists, because the cut is deep enough and long enough she has to stitch it closed. Stiles doesn't make a sound through the whole process, but tightens his grip on the concrete and Lydia’s hand with each pass of needle through skin. Allison presses a band-aid over it too when she’s finished.

“To hide it,” she explains when Stiles asks. “Tell anyone who asks it was a cat.”

“Thanks,” he says, and snorts. When she nods at him in acknowledgement, he ducks back inside the restaurant, hood up. He comes back out a minute later, face clean of blood, and tells them,

“Guy inside says bus station is ten minutes from here, airport forty. Which one?”

They go for bus station, and are out of state by the end of the day.

“That shop owner really wasn't kidding, was she?” Stiles mutters at one point, and Lydia leans further into him and sighs.

They lose track of time, states and monsters pretty quickly.

They run into a trio of vampires in Arizona (“I’m gonna kick Derek’s ass the next time I see him for saying vampires weren't real!”), and are forced to decapitate them, because nothing else will kill them. They do explode when they die though, and Stiles compares it to Buffy. Allison smiles and Lydia hides hers behind a smirk while hitting him over the head.

In Michigan, a particularly nasty wendigo comes after them (“Seriously, this isn't fucking Supernatural!”), and kidnaps Allison. They barely kill it in time. The other two are still not sure when and where Lydia found the time or resources to mix up a Molotov cocktail. And Stiles was with her the entire time.

Not that they’re complaining.

A team of centaurs and nymphs attack them in a forest in Maine when they can’t find a hotel, and Lydia gets a new scar from one of the centaurs' arrows clipping her in the shoulder. Allison shoots the centaur in the head for her.

Stiles and Lydia get better with both fighting and magic quickly, spending any down time they can find training with each other for magic and Allison for fighting. Being part of a pack that consisted mostly of werewolves who were all extremely protective of the three of them, they never did much fighting, although Derek did insist of training for all of them nearly as often as the wolves. They learn on the job now, how to fight both alone and as a team. They work well together, deadly and efficient.

Very quickly, they run out of money and medical supplies, so they head to Vegas to deal with one of the problems. Lydia gambles and Allison hits the slot machines while Stiles hunts down a payphone in the casino to call Deaton again. He’s not sure how he still remembers the number, but chooses not to question the one bit of luck he still has left.

He feels weird, being this close yet so far away from a pack that he knows is still waiting for them. He knows they’re still waiting because the pack bond is still there, a pain in his chest he knows won’t lessen for a while yet, if ever.

 Stiles knows Allison and Lydia have the same feeling he does, like the line that tethers them to the rest is aching for the distance to be closed. He can see it on their faces when he looks at them, just as much as he’s sure they can see it on his.

“Hello?” Deaton’s calm-as-ever voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Hey, Doc. We need some help again. Willing to give it?”

There’s a sound that might be a laugh on the other side. “I’ll do what I can. How are you three?”

“Good, I guess?” He knows if he tells Deaton about the danger they’re in, Deaton will tell the pack, and then they’ll be in danger too. “Few new scars, but nothing we’re not used to. So, got anyone in Nevada who can help us?”

Stiles has a notebook and pen ready this time, and jots down the store names and addresses Deaton give him. Tries not to feel the déjà vu of it.

When he’s finished, Deaton says in a fake nonchalant voice, “You’re quite close to California.”

Stiles sighs into the receiver. “We needed the money,” he confesses. “We’ll be gone in a day. Don’t tell the others anyway, though.”

He hangs up before the older man can answer, because he knows Deaton is trustworthy, despite the mystery that covers him like a shadow no matter how much time they spend with him.

He finds the girls again, who now have a small fortune between them, and they head out to find Deaton’s people.

The first of which is fucking awesome, Stiles would like to point out.

“Alan is a very good friend of mine,” the owner, Hank, tells them as he leads them to the back of the store. “I’ll give you anything you need, free of charge.”

“You really don’t have to-” Allison starts, but Hank cuts her off.

“Nonsense. I want to. I owe Alan and Marin both at least ten favors by now anyways. Might as well start paying them back. Besides, you three look like you could use the help.”

Stiles belatedly realizes how they must look. Allison and Lydia have long since taken to pulling their hair back into ponytails every day, although Allison’s is still shorter than what it used to be back in Beacon Hills. Its hell enough to deal with as it is. Lydia still refuses to cut hers, though. Stiles would've long brought his back down to the buzz cut he had for so long if he could find a razor and some time.

Their clothes are wrinkled and dirty, stained with blood and ripped in a few places; their jackets are really the only things that aren't completely ruined, and it’s because all three of them are fabricated of sturdy leather. Lydia’s boots—that have been flat on the ground since they started moving every day and heals were just too much of a nuisance, hidden knives or not—look like she’s walked through a puddle of blood, Stiles’ sneakers too. Allison’s are a little better, but not by much. The arm guard she wears near permanently now is worn, and almost too soft to use.

And they all have scars. Stiles seems to have a habit of being hit in the face, because in addition to the scar above his eye, he has one stroked across his cheekbone, one of his chin, and one that nearly goes down the whole length of his face. He also has claw marks from various monsters on his arms and chest. Lydia, too, has claw marks up and down her arms, and a bite a monster Stiles can’t remember now on the skin where her shoulder and neck meet. None of them had ever been happier Lydia was immune to all things supernatural than in that moment. Allison, for her part, has less than the other two. Part of her ear is missing though, from a beta they’d encountered somewhere around Mississippi that was loyal to the Alpha Pack, and she has a single set of claw marks, scraped down from her shoulder to her wrist.

That hadn't been a good day for anyone.

Worse than all of this, Stiles knows, is the general look of them now. He’d noticed it first in a gas station washroom, that the way he carried himself was different than before. More than that, the look in his eyes all but said _I’ve killed. I’ve destroyed. I’ve seen hell now. Don’t think I won’t show it to you._ When he’d exited the washroom, he’d looked at his companions a little closer, and noticed the same changes in them.

Hank’s speaking again, so he does his best to clue back in. Yeah, not having Adderall for months might not have been the best idea. Too late now though.

They don’t even need to stop at the rest of Deaton’s contacts, Hank is so forthcoming. He refills all their empty containers of wolfsbane, mistletoe and mountain ash, and well as giving them multiple others, some of which Stiles can’t even name. He reloads Allison’s arrows, Lydia’s knives, dips Stiles’ staff into substances that are apparently harmful to near every member of the supernatural, and then restocks the all but empty first-aid kit. He also gives Allison a longbow and a quiver full of arrows, along with a new arm guard, and Stiles the most badass sword he’s ever seen in his life, and then gives them a permit that will allow them to carry them anywhere with a wink.

He even takes the time to show Stiles and Lydia some magic stuff, including how to work together on spells.

When they finally leave, they feel better somehow.

“Do we even need to go anywhere else?” Allison asks, and Stiles shrugs, looking to Lydia.

“Probably not,” Lydia answers. “I don’t think we could get much else anywhere.”

By the end of the day, they’re on a flight to halfway across the country, because whether or not Deaton is trustworthy, someone knew they were in Nevada.

Stiles gets used to the sword surprisingly quickly, and finds he loves using it. It’s wicked lethal and has a long range, which means he isn’t as close to the monsters anymore, less likely to get clawed or punched. He and Lydia tag team another one of the alphas who broke away from the pack to go after them with magic, and although they both pass out and scare the living crap out of Allison afterwards, they all agree it was fucking awesome.

The witch they run into in Oregon is a different story.

They don’t like being there, close to California as it is, but they were running out of places to go, and it was one of the only states they hadn’t gone.

They should've known it would be predictable.

The witch is a fucking bitch, rhyme unintended. A bitch with a spear. She sends all of Allison’s arrows in different directions so they don’t hit her, though she thankfully doesn't—usually—spin them around completely to go back and hit Allison, and blocks the spells Lydia and Stiles do with an easy flick of her wrist and a laugh. Stiles gets a little too close to her, and she runs him through with the spear. He sputters as she pulls it back out, cackling, and he falls to the ground.

“Stiles!” Lydia screams, and the next thing he’s aware of is the witch’s body next to him on the ground, one of Lydia’s knives in her forehead and the marks Lydia’s most lethal spell leaves covering her body. Apparently she was too caught up with taking down him to worry about the other two, which was a big mistake, seriously.

Lydia and Allison are both there in a second, surveying the damage.

“You need a hospital,” Allison says, hands red with his blood, and yeah, he’s not exactly in any position to argue at this point.

Lydia handles the cover story at the emergency room, and to the best of Stiles’ knowledge his fake ID is used and believed. He blurs out for a while, and comes to in a hospital bed, the room empty save Lydia curled up into his good side and Allison's head next to Lydia's hip, her body flopped over from the chair pressed against the bed. One of Lydia’s small hands is resting delicately on his wound, and he can feel the magic she’s sending through herself into it in her sleep, aiding the healing process as best she can.

He later uses his own magic to quicken his healing time, and uses more than he probably should, as hurt and weak as he is, but he’s still in the hospital for close to two days, and by the time he’s released the Alpha pack has caught up to them.

They do the only thing they can do:

Stiles sharpens his sword and all the knives he has, and arms himself with them and his staff, all covered with the various werewolf poisons they've acquired. Prays to God none of the Alpha Pack’s allies will be fighting with them. Runs through his spells again.

Lydia coats all fifteen of her knives with the last of her powders, and she too, runs through her spells, occasionally blowing something up in the hotel room they’re in. Stiles always has to stop whatever he’s doing and go sit next to her, run his hands up and down her arms to calm her down. Soothes the crackling edges of her magic with his own until it’s calm too.

Allison straps knives to her ankles and wrists, slings her long bow and two quivers packed with arrows over her back, and prepares her crossbow.

Then, they take a taxi to the nearest and largest forest they can find, because at least if they have to have the fight, they can choose the ground it’ll be on. The whole ride, they all—although none of them say anything about it to the others—have a strange tugging feeling in each of their guts, but they chalk it up to anxiety.

They wander through the trees for a minute or two, trying to find a good place to fight. Two howls come from opposite sides of the clearing they stop in, so Stiles says, “You guys go find that one, I’ll do the other. Meet back here in ten?”

Lydia and Allison both nod, if a bit hesitantly, and Lydia kisses his cheek before she disappears into the tree line.

Stiles refuses to let himself dwell on it, and starts running.

He finds the alpha fighting someone and obviously winning, so Stiles steps in. All he can see of the other figure is a pair of red eyes glowing in the darkness the trees is creating over them, but he decides to help out until further notice. Not all Alphas are in the Alpha pack, after all.

“Hey!” he yells, getting her attention. She’s too close to the other for him to do anything, so he yells a spell that forces them to separate. They both fall, but only the alpha female gets up. She swipes at Stiles; he ducks and jabs with his sword, tugging upwards once it's passed through her gut. It too has wolfsbane on it, and is partially made of silver. She falls, dying within seconds of hitting the ground.

“For a member of the alpha pack, you’re not much of a fighter,” he comments, looking at the body. He’s barely breathing hard.

Behind him, there’s a sharp intake of breath, then: “Stiles?”

Stiles whips around so fast he almost drops the sword, and then he does, because Scott is, in fact, standing there.

Stiles has never been more glad for shadows, because he knows if Scott could see his face, he’d freak out and ask Stiles a million and two questions, and Stiles doesn't have time for that right now. Instead he rushes forward, hugging his best friend tightly. Scott hugs him back, not hesitating for a second, and Stiles spares a second to remember how it feels to have Scott there, and have more than two pack members around, both of which human. He pulls away quickly though, because there’s still a fuck-ton of Alphas, approximately, trying to kill him, and says,

“We gotta go. Find out what happened with Allison and Lydia.”

He takes off running back in the direction he came from, picking up his sword as he passes it; Scott follows a second later, keeping up with his sprint easily.

“They’re okay?” he asks.

“Of course they’re okay. But they might not be for long.”

“What are you guys even doing here?”

“Us?” Stiles yells over the wind, making sure there are no trees ahead for him to run into before shooting Scott an incredulous glance. “This isn't Beacon Hills, last time I checked!”

They reach the clearing, which is good, because Scott stops. “Exactly! You should be there too. Why aren't you?”

Stiles opens his mouth to answer. Closes it. Thinks about lying. Then sighs and says,

“The Alpha Pack is after us.”

Scott’s eyes widen. “They’re why we’re here too. They came into Beacon Hills a while ago, killed two people. Nearly killed Isaac. We figured here was the closest they were ever gonna get to us again.”

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters. “That must've been when they first started after us. Sorry.”

Scott shrugs. “It’s not like it’s your fault they’re doing this.”

“Kind of is,” Stiles mutters. The girls come in then, Isaac behind them. Stiles, Allison and Lydia all silently looks over each other to make sure they’re okay, and Isaac and Stiles hug briefly while Scott hugs the girls. Stares at Allison for longer than necessary.

“You find any alphas?” Allison asks, and Stiles nods.

“Yeah, she was fighting Scott. I killed her. You guys?”

Lydia shakes her head. “Just Isaac.” She turns to the two werewolves. “Where are the others?”

“Somewhere in the forest,” Isaac answers, glancing around the tree line. “Scott, call them?”

Scott nods, tipping his head back and howling. Within seconds, Boyd and Erica show up.

“Holy fuck!” Erica says when she sees the humans, rushing forward to hug them all.

“Hey Catwoman,” Stiles says, laughing as she practically tackles him. She grins at him, and moves to hug Lydia.

Derek and Cora show up then. They all waste a moment after now that the whole pack is there, hugging and maybe-cuddling. Derek pulls away first and says to the three, obviously unaware of the actual reasoning of them being there, and says,

“You should get out of here. The Alpha Pack is coming.”

Lydia and Allison both look like the idea of castrating has never been so good. Stiles, for his part, gets right up in Derek’s face, temper worn thin from months of Alpha Pack shit, and says,

“Are you fucking kidding me? We've been running around the country, hell, the freaking continent, for _months_ to try to keep them off of us, and away from you. We've been hunted by just about every creature you can fucking imagine, and made it out alive every single fucking time. Hell, we've even killed some of the alphas. Thanks, but we’re staying. This is more our fight than yours. If anyone should be getting out of here, it’s you guys.”

“We’re not leaving,” Boyd and Cora say at the same time.

“Then we’ll fight them together,” Stiles says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Maybe because it is.

Derek looks at him, perfectly pokerfaced. Stiles sees his eyes move as he takes in the various scars all three of them bear, their weapons, and their identical stances that say they won’t go down without a fight. He nods and steps back, and Stiles nods back, going to stand next to Lydia and Allison.

“Where’d you get a sword?” Boyd asks, and Stiles grins.

“It was a gift. From a friend of Deaton's,” he adds before someone can ask.

“He told us you called, twice,” Cora says. “But he didn't say why.”

Allison shrugs. “We needed supplies, but didn't know where to get it. Deaton gave us names of people who could help.”

“The Alpha Pack has friends,” Lydia adds. “When we killed two of the pack defending innocent people, they weren't happy. Every monster in the country was on us, practically.”

“Okay, but if you've been running so much, how’d they catch up?” Isaac asks, and Stiles coughs awkwardly, looking down at his shoes and rubbing the back of his neck nervously with his hand.

“I, um, kinda got stabbed?”

Both luckily and unluckily, the Alpha Pack show up then, so no one can comment on that.

“Well, at least they don’t have those friends you were talking about,” Isaac says, and Allison snorts as she picks a tree and starts climbing.

The whole Alpha Pack is there, they know, because they got their whole number from the one they’d killed not too long ago. There are 24 in total now, and they’re all ready to kill.

They also seem adamant on ignoring the wolves of the pack and heading straight to the humans. To be fair, Stiles thinks as he lifts his sword in one hand and flicks out his staff in the other—he’s certainly going to need them both—they are the ones they’re after. Out of the corners of his eyes, he can see Allison stringing an arrow on her longbow from the tree she’s now sitting in, Lydia with two knives in each hand, and the various wolves surrounding them wolfing out, so to speak.

God, he’s missed them.

The Alphas all charge at them at the same time, originally all heading for the humans in the center. The pack steps in, two to an alpha, and Allison starts picking off werewolves with arrows coated in wolfsbane. Stiles sticks close to Lydia, having grown used to fighting alongside her, back to back. She throws knives to wolves that get too close to them when he’s fighting others, and she keeps an eye on Allison so that when she’s too busy, Lydia steps in and throws knives across the clearing to embedded in a wolf that’s getting a little too close to Erica’s exposed back, or yelling a spell to ward off an alpha that’s claws are too close to Isaac’s throat for her liking. Cora covers her while she goes and gets what knives she can back, because some of her targets haven’t died. She also sends Allison’s arrows back up to her while she’s at it, ripping them out of still-fighting and down-for-the-count wolves alike. Stiles, for his part, fights like a whirlwind, spinning around in his various half-circles and hitting near everything that moves, with both his staff and sword, depending what side the offending alpha is closest to. He sees, too, that the rest of the pack have also gotten a lot better at fighting over the past, what, year and a half?

None of it is enough, because they still overpower them nearly 3-to-1, and they can fight just as well, if not better. (Definitely better, but who’s asking?)

Stiles takes a second when he’s not fighting for his life to look around at his wolves; Scott’s bleeding through his shirt on his side, Erica her left leg, Boyd his shoulder, and Isaac ‘s shirt is ripped at the back and bleeding through the rips. He’s not sure about Lydia; she’s gotten good at ignoring pain completely. He can see blood on both of the Hales too, but he can’t tell if they’re actually injured or not either. His guess is that they are, but they’re not showing it. Or trying not to. Cora looks more pissed off than usual, and Derek’s face is pinched. He himself is bleeding from his stab wound, the stitches long since broken, and a fresh set of claw marks on his shoulder.

Stiles sees one of the remaining alphas—he figures there are still fifteen up and fighting—go for the tree Allison’s shooting from, and figures that’s it.

“Lydia!” She’s a little further away from him, and he shoots his hand out towards her. She sees it, knows instantly what he’s thinking, and grabs it, lurching forward and speaking the same time he does.

There’s a _whoosh_ of magic, and Stiles’ vision blurs, weak from fighting, his own wounds, and healing magic, but he holds steady, forces himself to, and when it clears again all of the alphas have been pushed back by the dome force field that’s now around them. It shoots up to one side, protecting Allison too, but other than that it’s perfectly rounded.

They've only done it once, he and Lydia, to protect a building a fire demon was planning on burning down, and it takes a lot of magic to do, but it seems to be sturdy. It was even strong enough to push out the unmoving bodies from the ground out, which is nice.

Isaac lets out a surprised laugh, Erica  _whoops_  and falls easily against Boyd, and Scott grins at his friends. Cora and even Derek are smiling too, obviously relieved.

“Can I get a high-five?” Stiles asks, holding up the hand that isn't clasped with Lydia’s still in the air. “Because that is totally high-five worthy!”

Lydia, who’s also grinning—although she’s obviously concentrating on keeping the shield up just as much as Stiles is—gives into an impulse and is the first to grant his request. Allison, laughing all the way down the tree—the shield pops into its naturally perfect shape as she hits the ground—is next, and then Scott, who still looks awed.

“How are you doing this?” Cora asks, reaching out once to touch the shield. The alphas outside don’t react, just keep on circling it and snarling.

“Magic,” Lydia says crisply, her grip tightening as one of the alphas knocks into the blueish screen. Isaac jumps, being the closest to it, and Lydia says,

“Don’t worry. They can’t see or hear us. All they can see is a big black dome.”

“How long can you hold it?” Derek asks, and Stiles glances at Lydia, thinks about it, then says,

“Twenty minutes? Half an hour at the most. I’m not exactly at my strongest right now, but I’m still pretty good. Lyds?”

She crinkles her nose a little at the nickname like she always does (it’s half the reason he uses it), and says,

 “I’m okay. I didn't use as much magic on you as you did yesterday, and I’m less injured. Hang on.” She shifts the spell around so he’s controlling it less, more of a 60-40 than a 50-50. He relaxes a little, lets himself breathe more.

“Thanks,” he says, and she nods and gives him one of her tiny little smiles that seem to be reserved for him and him only.

“This is awesome, don’t get me wrong, but what are we supposed to do about them?” Boyd asks, jerking his thumb out to the Alpha Pack.

“We can shift the force field so it takes them in, one or two or even three, if you want, at a time, and kill them off. Easy,” Lydia says, and Derek and Scott both nod in approval.

It’s not all that difficult, shifting the force field back and forth, but it’s tedious, and takes energy Stiles isn't actually sure he has. But he manages, like he’s learned how to do, because he has to.

They bring them in two at a time, molding the force field around the ones Lydia and Stiles deem easiest to get to. Scott still refuses to kill, and no one is arguing with him on it, which Stiles is thankful for, secretly. He is one of their best fighters, though, so he sticks to tiring them out and making them bleed before letting someone else more willing to take the kill shot.

Twenty minutes and a lot of blood later, there’s only one alpha left, so they let the barrier fall and Derek deals with her. Stiles slumps against a tree, massaging his recently released and cramping hand and closing his eyes so his vision won't blur again.

He’s aware of the celebrating going on, now that the Alpha Pack is all dead and no longer a threat. He opens his eyes long enough to see Allison jump on Scott and apparently try to eat his face, and he grins to himself. He gets up, albeit reluctantly, to partake in it too, clumsily swinging Lydia around as she laughs and hugging each pack member at least once.

“You okay?” Scott asks a minute later when he pushes away from him and sways, and Stiles nods, letting Lydia explain the whole ‘magic is draining’ thing.

Stiles pushes off of the tree he’s back to leaning against when he sees Scott still looks worried, and slings one arm around his best friend, both to support himself and to reassure Scott.

“Let’s go find a hotel room to crash in. Do you guys still puppy pile?”

They do, as it turns out, because of course they do and the wolves makes quick work of turning the hotel room they still have for a night’s floor into a nest made from couch cushions, pillows, and blankets. They've all mostly healed by now, but Stiles’ side is still aching.

“Hey, Allison?” he says, and she turns to look at him from where she’s cuddled up against Scott. She can see immediately that he’s favoring his side, and untangles herself.

“Stitches popped?” she asks, and he nods.

“Okay, seriously, what the hell happened?” Erica asks from the floor.

Lydia helps him get his shirt off while Allison finds their first-aid kit, and Scott visibly winces at the sight of the stab wound, huge and trickling blood down his side. Stiles makes a face at him, because he’s still just as immature, sometimes, as he was at sixteen, and says to the room,

“A couple days ago, this total bitch of a witch—heh, uh, sorry—was fighting us. I got in the way of her spear. Lydia and I both did the best we could, but magic only goes so far. On the plus side, I’m not dead, which was actually a possibility for a while, apparently.”

During this, Allison has shoved him onto the bed, sterilized and threaded the needle, and started restitching the wound, but Stiles doesn't make any indication it hurts. Lydia, who’s noticed the newest set of claw marks, is in the washroom wetting down a face towel to wash off the blood.

“Doesn't that hurt?” Isaac’s the one to ask, and Stiles snorts. Allison’s quick and professional in her work, but,

“Yeah, like hell,” he says easily, and then shrugs one shoulder. “You kinda get used to it.” He gestures to the various scars marring his body.

As Allison finishes and starts repacking their first-aid kit, Scott comes over and lays his hand on Stiles’ bare chest. The next second, black veins slide up his arm and slowly disappear, and Stiles groans as he goes boneless and falls backwards onto the practically stripped bed.

“Duuuuude,” he says, sounding like he used to, back before they left, before Scott got bit, even, carefree and relaxed. “Best superpower eeeeeever.”

Scott laughs, and Lydia tugs on Stiles’ ankle until he slides off the bed and lands next to her on the floor. Allison comes back and curls up between them and Scott, and Derek, who’s the only one left standing, comes and sits next to Cora.

“Explain,” he demands. His tone suggests he's not screwing around, but Stiles just groans and tips his head back onto Lydia’s shoulder, making it harder for her to clean off the blood. She pushes him back up, smirking, and he turns to look at her, ignoring Derek for the time being.

“Hey, are you hurt?” he asks, reaching out to tough the cut on her forehead; it’s getting blood in her hair. She shakes her head.

“Bullshit,” he says, reaching back onto the bed to grab a band-aid from the first-aid kit. He gets it on her while she finishes wiping away the blood on his shoulder.

Derek’s growl snaps them back to attention; Allison’s looking at them like she’s trying not to smile.

“Explain,” Derek repeats, but Stiles just groans again.

“Seriously? Can we, like, not do this at this point in time? I haven’t slept in three days, I used way more magic than I probably should have, and I’m _tired._ ”

Derek sighs, like he’s just remembered how much of a nuisance Stiles actually is, but nods.

“Weren't you in the hospital for two days or something though?” Erica asks. “Didn't you have time to sleep then?”

“Oh yeah,” Stile says sarcastically, “I had plenty of time in between bleeding out, healing myself and trying not to have a total panic attack for 48 hours straight.”

Every wolf save Scott looks confused at this, but Stiles doesn't offer an explanation besides,

“I don’t like hospitals, okay? Now can we please sleep now?”

They’re exhausted enough by the fight and healing that everyone agrees, and Stiles ends up squished between Scott and Lydia, with Allison half draped across both him and Scott, and Erica using one of his legs as a pillow.

He wakes up early the next morning, with Lydia lying across his chest and blinking awake with him. He can hear the shower running, and a quick look around reveals it’s Allison. The rest of the pack is still asleep, but they’re too used to getting up early and leaving the state to sleep in. He supposes if the pack hadn’t found them, they’d be off again, but he knows they won’t let them leave, and he doesn't really want to anyways. They're strong enough to protect themselves from anything that might try to hurt them back in Beacon Hills now, anyways

_I miss sleeping in too,_ Lydia says in his head, and he startles slightly.

He always forgets that whenever he and Lydia do a spell together, they near completely meld together. Become one person, almost. They always try—tried—to spend the next day lying low, because they can feel each other’s pain, emotions, even hear their thoughts and talk to each other in their heads, after they’d practiced with it the first time it happened.

They've even done it on purpose, on occasion, Allison saying something like one word of the spell or smashing something important so she was included. It came in handy. Now, it’s good for keeping quiet.

_Maybe we’ll be able to again,_ he says to her. _Wanna get off me so I can get up?_

She slides off of him to the side, and they both manage to get up without waking any of the wolves. Stealth isn't an option when you’re running for your life; it’s mandatory.

With Allison in the washroom, five werewolves with extra-good hearing asleep two feet away from them, and no reason to have to pack and leave in the next five minutes, there’s nothing for them to do, really.

Until Lydia unexpectedly closes the space between them and kisses him for all she’s worth.

_Um_ , he says in his head, but responds enthusiastically after the initial first moment of surprise.

_Give me a break,_ she replies. _We’re not close to dying anymore, okay?_

No other response is necessary, frankly.

She’s short, close to eight inches shorter than he is actually, so he backs her up until they hit the little counter on one of the walls and lifts her up onto it.

Stiles can hear Lydia’s laughter in his head at his enthusiasm, even as she forces his lips apart with her own and licks inside his mouth. Her legs thread around his hips, and she hooks her ankles together at the small of his back. He groans silently, and tightens his grasp on his waist with one hand, the other starting to trail both up and down her body. Her hands, meanwhile, are in his hair, and he’s never been so glad he grew it out so long ago. She lowers one of them to trace the scar that goes down the length of his face, and her laugh echoes in his head when his response is to bite her lip in a way she didn’t actually know could be that sexy.

Neither of them hears the water shut off or the bathroom door open, so they both jump when Allison squeals and yells,

“Finally!”

This causes them to jump apart, although Stiles keeps one hand on Lydia’s waist, and he’s positive his hair is sticking up in at least twenty different angles. Allison’s yell causes the wolves wake up quite suddenly. She doesn’t seem to care in the slightest though, just keeps grinning like an idiot, bouncing up and down in place and pointing at them excitedly.

“Allison, you look like a five year old,” Lydia tells her, flipping her hair out of Stiles’ face when he buries his face into her shoulder to hide his grin.

“What the hell?” Isaac mutters, sitting up, hair askew. “Why are you guys up?”

“Instinct,” Lydia says, at the same Allison sing-songs, “They were making out!”

Scott shoots up at this, very much awake, and Stiles abandons all pretense of normal.

“Dude, your face!” he exclaims, and promptly collapses to the ground with laughter, where he continues to laugh.

All the wolves are up, now, and Allison is excitedly telling the room in general what she saw. Scott’s just standing there with his mouth hanging open, staring at his best friend, who’s now up off the floor and standing next to Lydia again, still chuckling. Allison practically shrieks when Lydia reaches over to tangle her fingers with his, and when Lydia gives her own best friend an incredulous look, Allison says,

“You know how long I’ve been waiting for you two to finally get together? For God’s sake, you should’ve seen the looks on the your faces when the other got hurt. And don’t even get me started on how strong your magical bond is.”

Scott’s grinning now, and Stiles is smiling shyly at Lydia. His voice in his head is hesitant as he says

_We’re going to be doing that again right?_

She laughs, smiling now too, and says back,

_Yes, you idiot._

Between Lydia and Stiles’ insistence it’s not a big deal and the people who aren’t going crazy over their impromptu make-out session—read: anyone who isn’t Scott or Allison—they’re out of the hotel and sitting in the Denny’s across the street by 10a.m.

_I can’t remember the last time I actually had pancakes,_ Stiles says absentmindedly as he flips through the menu. _Oh my God, that’s terrifying._

Lydia smirks at him from her seat. _What about bacon?_

Stiles stares at her across the table and says in a deadly serious voice,

“That is the most terrifying thing you have ever said to me.”

“Stiles, she didn’t say anything,” Cora says, voicing the packs’ thoughts.

Allison rolls her eyes and flips the page on her menu. “Yes she did. Just in her head. They have this weird bond thing every time they do a spell together. Spend the whole day after in each other’s heads and knowing what the other is feeling. Ooh, crepes.”

It’s silent for a few moments, then: “A lot’s changed, hasn’t it?” Boyd.

“Yup,” Stiles says, “But Lydia still wears heels, I still use sarcasm as a defense and Allison still talks about Scott as much as he used to talk about her to me, so normal is still something we’re at least touching.”

Allison wads up a napkin and throws it at him; it hits him in the nose. “That’s what you use for me?” she says, voice incredulous and cheeks pink.

“‘I hope Scott’s okay,’” Lydia mimics, causing Stiles to laugh and Scott’s ears to go pink to match Allison’s cheeks. “’I wonder if he’s going to college.’ ‘I hope he’s not being threatened to be brutally murdered and chased every day.’”

Allison flushes a brighter red than before, if possible, and opens her mouth to protest, but then settles for muttering,

“You guys are the worst.”

Erica finally gives into her giggles and tips her head back, laughing. “God, I forgot what it was like to have people with an actual sense of humor around.”

“Aw, dude,” Stiles says, looking at Derek. “Were you being mean to them?”

 Derek just lifts his eyebrows and continues looking through the menu.

They all order more food than would probably be considered normal, and get used to being a pack again. Boyd steals a piece of bacon from Stiles, who mourns the loss of it as dramatically as possible, making nearly everyone laugh. Scott never lets go of Allison’s hand, and Lydia and Stiles play footsie under the table and talk in each other’s heads.

“Hey, uh, how’s my dad?” Stiles asks later, while Derek and Cora are off paying the check.

“He’s okay, I guess,” Scott answers. “He works a lot more than he used to. Helps us out when we need it, but mostly stays away from all things pack. He, uh, doesn't go home much.”

Stiles nods and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that last one doesn't surprise me. Remember how much time I spent at your place when Mom died?”

Scott nods, his signature ‘kicked puppy’ look appearing on his face.

“I’ll go find him when we get home.”

“Um, how are we getting home?” Allison asks. Erica grins and answers,

“Oh that’s easy. Derek bought us a school bus.”

Stiles blinks at her. “You’re joking,” he says, deadpan, and Erica shakes her head.

“Nope,” she says, “renovated it and everything so we can all see everyone. It’s actually pretty awesome.”

It is, in fact, pretty awesome, the three of them find out shortly after. The old school bus has been painted black and gray (“Your favourite colors, huh Derek?”), and inside, the seats have all been taken out and rearranged along the walls. In the middle is a pile of blankets and pillows, and Stiles supposes it’s for sleeping.

Stiles chooses one of the seats closer to the front, Lydia and Allison on either side of him. Scott sits next to Allison, slinging an arm across her shoulders with his hand coming to rest on Stiles’ shoulder. Isaac sits on Lydia’s other side, and Cora sits behind the driver’s seat where Derek is, stretching out to rest her feet in Isaac’s lap. Erica and Boyd, meanwhile, have apparently decided their rude awakening earlier this morning was too early, and have curled up in the nest on the floor together, an arm each slung across their pack mates’ feet.

The more Stiles thinks about seeing his dad again, the more he thinks about the panic and stress he’s undoubtedly caused him. He can still see, in vivid clearness, the bags under his dad’s eyes after his mom died, and jeez, what kind of son is he anyway—

_The kind that gives up his whole life to keep his father safe_ , Lydia says, reaching over to grab his hand and squeezing it tightly. _I’ll go with you, if you want. We all will. You know that._

_And what about you? You left your mom too,_ he says back. He sees her give the tiniest shrug in his peripheral vision.

_I think I did a better job of explaining things to her in my letter than you did,_ she says, voice gentle. _But that’s because she doesn’t know about the supernatural world. Your dad does. He knows what’s out there. They’ll both be okay._

He nods, giving up on trying to hide the fact they’ve just had a whole conversation without speaking, and shifts so his head is in her lap. She runs her fingers through his hair automatically, and he hears Allison’s little ‘aw’. It’s not the first time they’ve done this, close as they are, but something’s different about it now, the touch more fond, somehow. Scott or Allison, he can’t tell which, lifts his feet up so he’s lying across both of them. It’s not the most comfortable of positions, but he’s slept in worse. Besides, seven hours of sleep just doesn’t cut it after three days and so much energy wasted, so he drifts off into a doze.

He snaps awake a few hours later when they enter Beacon Hills, feeling the power that rests there from generations of magical beings living just beyond the tree line. One look up at Lydia shows she feels it too. There’s more to it, though, something that’s just him.

The feeling of being home to a good one, and it lifts another weight from his chest he didn’t know was there, just like when the three of them were reunited with their pack.

He’s just sitting up again and stretching his arms above his head when Derek pulls the bus to a stop outside his apartment building. Everyone grabs their overnight bags and gets off the bus.

“Oh!” Scott says suddenly, digging into his pocket. He pulls out keys Stiles recognizes as the jeep’s and tosses them to him. Stiles catches them easily, surprised.

“It’s in the underground parking lot here,” Scott says. “Your dad didn’t want it at home with him, let me take it here.”

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says, and Scott nods, smiling again. He’s a little confused as to why Scott would just be carrying his jeep keys around in his pocket for almost two years, but he doesn’t ask.

They wait in the loft long enough for Allison’s dad to come. She runs into her father’s arms, crying, and he runs a hand over her hair over and over again, muttering words Stiles hopes the wolves have the decency to tune out. She hugs each member of the pack once more, holding onto Stiles and Lydia the longest, before leaving with her dad.

“Well,” Stiles says once they’re gone, clapping his hands, “time for me to go drive around town until I work up enough courage to sneak in through my bedroom window so I won’t have to deal with my dad until tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll come with,” Lydia says easily, hoisting herself up off the floor with him. Before he can protest, she presses her lips to his, once, then grabs his hand and tugs him in the direction of the door.

“We’ll see you guys soon. Promise,” she says over her shoulder, and Stiles waves to them. He figures tomorrow night will be a pack night, if their parents will let them go for long enough.

They take the elevator down to the parking lot. He unashamedly hugs his jeep when he sees her.

_God, I wish I still had a phone to take a picture of this with,_ Lydia says, and he laughs against the hood.

“No making fun of Roscoe,” he says, voice muffled by the cool metal under his cheek. Lydia just laughs again.

He unpeels himself a moment later, and unlocks and holds the passenger side door open for her.

“Let’s go face the music,” he says once he’s in the driver’s seat next to her, suddenly somber.

They go to her house first, because Stiles is still trying to work himself up to go to his own. The letter Lydia had left her mom had really only told her she was going on a across country road trip with Allison and Stiles to get away from the troubles of Beacon Hills for a while, maybe look at some colleges. The only line that gave any hint that something was out of the ordinary, besides the leaving in the middle of the night, was the final line

_ If I don’t come home from this, Mom, know that I love you, and that I love Dad. Please, just never forget that. I love you, so much. _

Stiles stands behind them on the porch, and then later in the doorway of the living room while they have their reunion. Lydia manages to leave a little over twenty minutes later, and takes one of Stiles’ shaking hands in her own as they leave.

He doesn’t completely remember driving back to his house, his _home_ , but he’s outside of it before he knows it, parked next to his dad’s cruiser. Lydia grabs his hand again when they’re out of the jeep again, and he’s fairly convinced she’s the only thing keeping him from bolting straight back to the loft, or Scott’s house, or Oregon.

He knocks twice, and his knees almost buckle when he hears his dad say, “Just a second!” from inside. Only the weight of Lydia's hand in his keeps him standing.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck_ he chants inside his head; his mom never liked swearing, and even after she died, the house was a strict no swearing zone, but right now he can't care less.

_You’ll be fine,_ Lydia says firmly, squeezing his hand one before dropping it at the same time the door opens.

There’s a second where the Sheriff doesn’t register who’s standing on his porch, and then it does, and he gets a look on his face that’s anxious/happy/apprehensive/scared/angry/amazed all at once.

“Stiles,” he says, as is he doesn’t believe it.

Stiles lifts a hand as if to wave. He’s going for nonchalant, but Lydia can hear the panic bouncing through his skull. Can see it in the tense, rigid muscles under every inch of skin.

“Hi,” he says. “Uh, I’m not dead.”

And then he’s being hugged, and hugging his father back, doing his best not to cry into his shoulder like he did when he scraped knee on the road when he was twelve, also known as the last time he cried in front of his dad. And also utterly failing at it. He’s seen way too much for a nineteen year old kid from a town most people don’t even know about.

His dad pulls away, keeping a firm grasp on his shoulder, and looks at his son. He lifts one of his hands to trace the scars marring Stiles’ face, and says in a voice that’s shaking almost as much as Stiles himself is,

“God, Stiles, you-” he can’t seem to finish, but it’s okay, because Stiles can’t even get one word out. Lydia’s thinking soothing things into his head, and his dad’s hugging him again, leading him inside with Lydia following.

On the couch in the living room, Stiles tells his dad, with Lydia’s help, all the things that have happened over the past year and a half. By the time he’s finished, Lydia’s fallen asleep on his shoulder, and he’s practically falling asleep too, so the Sheriff settles for a one-armed hug before reluctantly letting Stiles go upstairs with Lydia in tow. He uses the home phone to leave a voice mail at the Martin residence saying Lydia is fine, and then crashes next to her on his bed. He falls asleep on top of the covers, fully clothed, (although he’s awake when Allison sneaks in sometime past midnight, too used to the two of them being near to sleep without them) but he’s home, and everyone’s okay, so maybe that means he is too.


End file.
